I have a distinct memory of the first time my foot fell asleep. We were living on Bernard Avenue in Greensboro and my father was rushing out the door to get to work. I'm not sure where my mother may have been that morning ... but it was my father's job to take me to day care, I guess. This was sometimes the case, now that I think of it, because he would sometimes pull my hair back into a ponytail and he would pull it back so tight that my eyes would be at an angle on my face. I digress.
We had a split-foyer house on Bernard Avenue in Greensboro that had at the end of the driveway two large wagon wheels that my brother and I loved to climb. On this particular morning, my father was trying to get out the door in his well-fitting suit and his well-groomed mustache, and I was complaining and complaining about how it felt like needles were going into my foot. I couldn't figure out what in the hell was going on inside my shoe, but it felt like my foot was going to fall off. And it felt like several thousand needles were being pushed into my foot all at the same time. My father, even in all the haste of his morning, sat me down at the kitchen table, took off my shoe, and rubbed my foot so as to stimulate the blood flow, I now understand, but back then, I had no idea what in the hell he was doing. I just remember the fact that he was so harried. We were clearly so late. And in spite of all that, he still sat me down and woke up my foot.
This morning Andrew came downstairs in a bit of a haze (he's still working on the adjustment of the daylight savings shift) and plopped down on the couch. He seemed a bit bleary-eyed and he said, "I can't open my eye! There's sleep in my eye and I can't open it!" He was totally panicked. He continued to rub it and rub it until he was eventually able to open his right eye. But man, was he panicked. I'm sure, if even for the shortest amount of time, he was convinced his eye would never open again. He was going to be stuck with one eye closed forever. I offered to help. I offered to go upstairs to get a washcloth. He wanted no part of that. He wanted to sit there in misery with one eye closed, I'm thinking. Or maybe, just maybe, he wanted to fix it himself. Which is COMPLETELY unlike him. But whatever his reasoning, he was seeing out of both eyes by the time he left for school this morning. And man. THAT was a close one.
Why so dramatic??? Granted, this morning I wasn't in the rush that my father was in on that morning on Bernard Avenue. But that was a first. I'm all the time rushing to get out the door. It amazes me how we as human beings get up and leave our homes every day, typically for more hours than we're actually in them, away from our babies and loved ones, just to go to work. We work. That's what we do. And the drive is strong enough to take us away from our comforts and loves for so many hours out of the day ... and sometimes it's strong enough that we will become frustrated just to get out the door when we are running late. We will raise our voices, hurry them up, grow more and more frustrated when they don't move quickly enough, all in order to get to work on time. And to be away from our families for hours and hours and hours at a time.
I was raised very well by a loving father and a loving mother ... and no matter what, they would often take their time, no matter the rush, to calm the hysteria of their very spoiled daughter. Every once in a while, when I'm late for work, I try to stop and think about the time my father sat me down at the kitchen table in the house on Bernard Avenue that had the two large wagon wheels at the end of the driveway, and took off my shoe and rubbed my foot until it no longer felt like there were thousands of needles going into it. And then I take a deep breath, and I enjoy the few moments I have with my boys during the course of a very long day.
We had a split-foyer house on Bernard Avenue in Greensboro that had at the end of the driveway two large wagon wheels that my brother and I loved to climb. On this particular morning, my father was trying to get out the door in his well-fitting suit and his well-groomed mustache, and I was complaining and complaining about how it felt like needles were going into my foot. I couldn't figure out what in the hell was going on inside my shoe, but it felt like my foot was going to fall off. And it felt like several thousand needles were being pushed into my foot all at the same time. My father, even in all the haste of his morning, sat me down at the kitchen table, took off my shoe, and rubbed my foot so as to stimulate the blood flow, I now understand, but back then, I had no idea what in the hell he was doing. I just remember the fact that he was so harried. We were clearly so late. And in spite of all that, he still sat me down and woke up my foot.
This morning Andrew came downstairs in a bit of a haze (he's still working on the adjustment of the daylight savings shift) and plopped down on the couch. He seemed a bit bleary-eyed and he said, "I can't open my eye! There's sleep in my eye and I can't open it!" He was totally panicked. He continued to rub it and rub it until he was eventually able to open his right eye. But man, was he panicked. I'm sure, if even for the shortest amount of time, he was convinced his eye would never open again. He was going to be stuck with one eye closed forever. I offered to help. I offered to go upstairs to get a washcloth. He wanted no part of that. He wanted to sit there in misery with one eye closed, I'm thinking. Or maybe, just maybe, he wanted to fix it himself. Which is COMPLETELY unlike him. But whatever his reasoning, he was seeing out of both eyes by the time he left for school this morning. And man. THAT was a close one.
Why so dramatic??? Granted, this morning I wasn't in the rush that my father was in on that morning on Bernard Avenue. But that was a first. I'm all the time rushing to get out the door. It amazes me how we as human beings get up and leave our homes every day, typically for more hours than we're actually in them, away from our babies and loved ones, just to go to work. We work. That's what we do. And the drive is strong enough to take us away from our comforts and loves for so many hours out of the day ... and sometimes it's strong enough that we will become frustrated just to get out the door when we are running late. We will raise our voices, hurry them up, grow more and more frustrated when they don't move quickly enough, all in order to get to work on time. And to be away from our families for hours and hours and hours at a time.
I was raised very well by a loving father and a loving mother ... and no matter what, they would often take their time, no matter the rush, to calm the hysteria of their very spoiled daughter. Every once in a while, when I'm late for work, I try to stop and think about the time my father sat me down at the kitchen table in the house on Bernard Avenue that had the two large wagon wheels at the end of the driveway, and took off my shoe and rubbed my foot until it no longer felt like there were thousands of needles going into it. And then I take a deep breath, and I enjoy the few moments I have with my boys during the course of a very long day.